


Case #21514

by TarnishedHasMyHeart



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Do Not Archive (The Magnus Archives), Fear God Ritual, Fear Ritual, Pseudo- Religion, Ritual, The Eye (The Magnus Archives) - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-04
Updated: 2020-02-04
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:22:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22564696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TarnishedHasMyHeart/pseuds/TarnishedHasMyHeart
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/The Eye
Kudos: 13





	Case #21514

Martin made his way down the stairs, headed in the direction of the basement of the Archives. Upon reaching it, he found it the same as ever, but with a large door now there that he knows hadn't been there before. But he knew what it was for. He knew it had to do with why he was there, and so he didn't hesitate to enter.

The room it led into was lit by candles and torches, no lamps or light overhead. In the center of the room there was a large golden table with red accents and gems in shades of red and blue. It reminded Martin almost of a coffin. The walls where stone, and they looked old, even though this room couldn't have existed for more than a couple of days. They were smooth anywhere where there weren't cracks, even if worn as Martin lightly brushed his fingers over a part of them. Despite how cool they were to the touch, he could feel the warm thrum of energy buzzing through the room. The walls had a golden trim that matched the table, decorated with eyes that he knew were watching him. In the corner of the room there was what looked to me a small and shallow pool of water, with a range of bottles next to it, and a palette of paint and brushes as well. It smelled faintly of some type of incense, though not one Martin could place. It hardly mattered though, as his job wasn't to figure it out. He was here to be closer to it. 

He closed his eyes, and after a couple of counts he felt a blindfold be slipped around his eyes. He couldn't see anything through it when his eyes opened again, but he felt hands on his skin. At least three pairs gently guiding him, before stopping him. The hands began to strip him, helping him first from his shoes and socks, then from his bow tie (It was one of the only plain ones he owned), sweater vest and undershirt. His trousers and underwear followed suit, and he heard the rustle of them being taken away.

His focus was pulled to the hands again as they led him into the pool of water, feeling it first at his ankles, then feeling it rise as he moved further in. It was about waist deep when he was gently guided to sit down, the water only coming up slightly more. Water was washed over him, not freezing, but definitely on the colder side and causing him to shiver slightly. But he sat still as the hands started to rub his skin with rags, sweet scented soaps that felt thick on his skin. His skin was scrubbed gently at first, but slowly the scrubbing grew rougher until he felt as if en entire layer of skin had been washed away. He felt them rinse him again, before standing him up and gently walking him from the water. The towels were soft as they dried him, much more gentle than the scrubbing. As was the application of a lotion, as sweet scented as the soaps used to clean him off.

He felt relaxed, the smell of the incense having gotten stronger since the start of his bath, except now he felt the distinct feeling of being watched. He knew he was safe under this watch though. It was the eyes of his god, the one whose side he stood beside no matter the coaxing on The Lonely or The Web that tried to call to him on one to many nights. The Beholding was who he served, and who he received from.

He felt all but one pair of hands gently pull away, and only then realized that there had been more than three pairs after his bath had ended. But he didn't question it. He trusted them. He felt the final pair guide him and gently help him climb upon the cold table he knew to be the golden one that he had seen upon entering the room, laying back as he was silently instructed. He laid there, breathing softly for what felt like to long, before the gentle brush of fingers startled him. He calmed near instantly, keeping relaxed as he heard the faintest sound of shuffling around him.

He didn't flinch this time as he felt them start to paint his skin, feeling on both sides the patterns that were being put there. He knew the paint would wash away, but not the meaning behind each pattern they were painting. The room had grown warmer, or maybe Martin had gotten colder laying stark naked and the room felt warm in comparison. The brushes moved slowly, deliberate in their marks with a confidence of having done this before many times. Maybe they had. Martin couldn't know, for he didn't even know the faces of the ones painting him, caring for him, preparing him for what was to come.

By the time they were done, he could feel the paint drying on his skin, from his face to his ankles. He wondered what he looked like to the Eye, feeling that it's presence had only gotten stronger since he had been brought into this room. He felt it watching him, feeling his compliance and want, no, need to be closer to the Great Beholding. A need that swelled as he heard the door open and the shuffle of someone entering. The door closed softly, with a click as the footsteps approached and Martin shivered at the slow yet intense pace of their gentle 'tap tap tap' on the floor.

"Martin Blackwood," spoke a voice he knew all too well, calm yet bubbling with intention. His breath hitched slightly as he heard Jonathan Sims move to stand by the right side of the table. It was his voice, though it was as if there was both a deeper and lighter tone harmonizing alongside it, echoing in the room. He heard the rustle of pages as a book was opened, and listened as head heard Jon take a breath as if he was reading a statement. But when he spoke, Martin couldn't understand the words. Yet he understood the meaning of the words as they flowed over him and through him.

As Jon read, his tone grew more intense, the room definitely have grown in warmth as Martin's brain fogged. He felt his body grow lighter, while also being too heavy to even twitch a finger, the words steady even though Martin didn't know a single one of them. He felt safe, the warmth being his very bones and the energy being the blood that flowed through his veins. Soon he could make out nothing but the steady drone of Jon's voice, the blindfold being pulled away by another hands, his eyes hardly able to focus on the tall stone ceiling above him. He could feel The Beholding.

Watching him.

Knowing him.

Keeping him.

Slowly his vision fogged until he himself couldn't see with his eyes, but could see with everything else. He could see Jon, The Archivist, , his face set in concentration as his lips moved rapidly reading out loud into the room. Martin could see the room, brighter than it had been before as all the flames grew. He could see himself upon the able, still and unmoving and he would think his body dead if not for the ever so gentle rise and fall of his chest and the feel of his life flowing through it. He could see other things as well. He could see the Archives, the empty calls and darkened rooms, silent in the late evening when everyone had returned home to their beds. Despite all he could see, he could feel himself being watched, and he gave into that feeling. He sunk into it, closing his sight and returning to his body. 

Everything was silent.

And he knew he had done what he needed.


End file.
